


And Here We Are

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink, Alternating 1st person POV, Angst, Autism Spectrum, Awkward domestic conversations, Drama, Friendship, Homophobia, How to be a good flatmate, Humor, Insecure Sherlock, Loneliness, M/M, Mild casefic, Pining, Protective John Watson, Serial Killers, morbid fluff, since I was informed that's what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: All the little things we never got to see when an army doctor and a consulting detective were adjusting to sharing a flat. And a life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for a while, and tonight I suddenly realised how to fix a scene I felt wasn't working the way I wanted. So, here is a thingy for you all to enjoy while waiting for _**Drift Compatible**_. Chapter 2/2 will be posted in a few days.
> 
> TW: a case they're working on involves sexual assault and homicide, and the body and the crime scene are described in some forensic detail.

 

**_  
Sherlock_ **

John Watson is moving in today. Into this flat that is not _my_ flat, because it will now become _our_ flat. He's doing so voluntarily, which will certainly surprise my nuisance of a brother.

John and I will be _flatmates_ , as introduced by Mike Stamford. We will speak of _our_ flat, or _our_ joint life when conversing with others. Without any evidence that the experience will even be enjoyable, I find myself enamoured by the idea. Perhaps it's because I have never really been part of a partnership, never spoken of myself as part of an 'us', apart from being a member of the family I of course didn't get to choose for myself. I have not shared living space since university, and that was a disaster until Mycroft arranged for a single room for me. What did they expect, assigning someone to share my dorm room without letting me even meet that person beforehand? Or letting them meet me before they signed the contract?

Flatmates. Co-habitation. Sharing a space. Friendship? Too early. Or is it? I cannot tell. I never can, not with these social things. Some of those pretending to be my friends have turned out to be anything but. It has taken some difficult lessons to learn that people tolerate me when they want things from me. John doesn't seem to want anything besides a tolerable flatmate. Can I be that? I am half-tempted to suggest a written agreement regarding proper conduct. I suspect there will be many things I will do wrong, at least initially.

Why am I doing this? I can afford to live here alone. When I spoke to Mike Stamford about finding this flat, what I said about difficulty in finding a suitable flatmate was me simply making a general comment. This is what happens when I attempt small talk: things always end up topsy-turvy. It all started with a lament about the rent prices in downtown London. Soon, Stamford started to make helpful suggestions, and when he finally left the lab I breathed a sigh of relief, only to be thrown into a tailspin when he returns with John in tow.

John walked into Barts, gave me his phone, took me at face value, and didn't run. I didn't correct Mike's assumption that I was looking for a flatmate. It didn't seem like a relevant topic of conversation after John entered the equation.

He has gone to his old apartment to get his things. He assures me a regular taxi will be enough to transport them, no need for a proper moving van. I imagine his bedsit as spartan; he hasn't been in London long. I wonder if the army made him see the merits of living that way, or if he comes from a family lacking means so he's never had many material possessions under his name even before the army. Could I ask about this, or should I wait for him to enquire about my background first?

I check my visage in the bathroom mirror, preening like someone preparing for a date. It hardly matters what I am wearing today, but I like to be in control of the image I project. Should I be more casual, to look more casual? I never feel casual when forced to interact with strangers.

John brought in a couple of boxes yesterday, ones he could manage on the Tube. It was interesting to see which items he'd prioritised: photographs, passport, army things. I paid attention, because they will be things that he might want to feature prominently in the home I am going to inhabit as well, so I assumed helping him with moving in would mean that becoming aware of the contents would be supportive.

I assumed wrong.

"Oi!" he said when I'd opened a photo album. I nearly dropped it on the bed in the upstairs bedroom, startled by the sharpness of his tone. It was as if he couldn't quite decide whether to sound properly disapproving or slightly amused. It was the same tone he'd called me an _idiot_ with. "That's private."

"I apologise," I said and gave the album back to him. How was I to know it was off limits? I have several elderly female relatives who forced me to endure looking at family albums every time my parents dragged me along for a visit. I still cannot fathom what use I might have for images of people long dead even if they were Holmeses and Vernets.

John shouldn't have worried – I had only caught a glimpse of a couple of old, yellowed family photographs which showed the usual banal things: a Christmas tree, and a small boy I assume to be John on a bicycle.

Suddenly, I wondered whether it was appropriate for me to even be in his bedroom.

It's easier to get to know a person by seeing what they surround themselves with than by asking them questions. Material possessions don't lie, they don't obfuscate. They reveal things without prompting. I'm curious to see more of his belongings. That is, if he lets me. Clearly, I must be careful about being too intrusive.

Does a man who owns very little have a lot of secrets, or none at all?

 

**_John_ **

God, he's nosy. Instead of actually helping me move in, he rummages around my things as though he's at a flea market. The only thing he helped me carry up the stairs was my dresser, and afterwards he snootily dusted his trousers as though I'd brought in something plague-infested. When I noticed he was going through my stuff, he seemed genuinely surprised when I told him off. It's just the way he is, I guess – terribly curious – which is why I wasn't really angry.

I have no idea how he'd react if I started snooping around his things; there is some very odd stuff scattered around the flat. He's clearly very particular about how his stuff is organised in the bathroom; he hovered nervously while I was putting my stuff there. At least he doesn't seem very OCD about cleanliness; he isn't iffy at all about digging around corpses or doing nasty experiments. While putting some groceries in the kitchen cupboards, I found a vat of something rather foul-smelling. He gave me a complicated explanation involving bleach, fingernails and voles. He insisted it has something to do with a cold case. He even showed me the file. I wonder if Lestrade actually gave it to him or if he liberated it from the Met.

I do wonder.... about whether there are words, _diagnoses_ that could describe him. He's perfectly functional, if a little odd, so maybe there has never been a need for a profession assessment. I'm half tempted to ask that irritating brother of his if I see the man again, and I'm quite certain I will. Then again, Sherlock might consider that a betrayal of trust. I hate this sort of guesswork. If our roles were reversed, he would probably have already deduced everything about my peculiarities and blurted out loud the answer. I wonder if he has deduced things about me which he has kept to himself.

I give him a bottle of wine as a housewarming gift after I've put sheets in my bed upstairs.

He blinks, in that confused way that's quite.... endearing. He clearly doesn't know what to do with the bottle. He tries a 'thank you', but there is an obvious question mark at the end.

I open the kitchen cabinets, manage to find two wine glasses.

He makes no move to open the bottle, simply scrutinizes the label longer than reading all the words could possibly take. He reads out loud the Italian bits with perfect intonation. Of course, he'd know Italian, the posh git that he is. I ask what languages he speaks, and he seems relieved that I've given him a prompt he knows how to manage. He lists seven different ones, adding that Mycroft speaks a much greater number and that it's a particular talent of his brother's. There's reverence in his voice I've not heard before when talking about Mycroft Holmes, and he seems to catch himself on it, adding a verbiage of unfavourable descriptions of the man at the end.

After I've poured the wine he has finally opened with those long, nimble fingers, he admits quietly that he rarely drinks – that he doesn't like how it slows his brain down. It seems that he's willing to make an exception tonight, though – to toast the beginning of our 'cohabitation', as he ceremoniously calls it. It should be awkward, trying to deal with his quirks, but I find myself not worrying about it too much. He's making an effort and I see how difficult that is for him. Makes me want to bend over backwards to make things easier for him. I don't think he has a lot of friends.

**_Sherlock_ **

Two days after the case that John has dubbed " _A Study in Pink_ " on his blog, we have a dinner of takeaway at home. I pay, after he gets difficult about it. Money issues? There must be, I realise; army pensions are abysmal. Mycroft texted me the exact amount of his monthly pension yesterday when I asked; I felt oddly guilty about it afterwards. John doesn't appear the sort who saves up. He's more the c'est la vie type, which is fine, because I am the same. Mycroft's accountant handles my finances. Mycroft nags at me about them.

Over dinner, John regales me stories about his conquests of women. This was not prompted by anything, really, and it is terribly tedious. Does his sudden compulsion to affirm his heterosexuality connect to our discussion at Angelo's?

People who explicitly insist that something is _fine_ often secretly think the opposite. I should be glad that I did the right thing at Angelo's – shot him down, that is – and he pretended that it had not been his intention at all to sound like he was... _interested_.

I panicked. That is a fact. I do get propositioned, but none of those offers have interested me in the slightest. I could not even seriously entertain the notion of John chatting me up, because I could not even read whether he was being serious about it. Everything was terribly confusing and conflicting, and I did not know what I wanted. I slammed a door instead of leaving it ajar while I tried to get my bearings.

I do not share with him the fact of my inexperience with romance. In fact, I say very little during the conversation. It is obvious he has both skill and experience with the opposite sex. He puts people at ease, appears harmless even though he is everything but.

I like to think I've seen past what others think is the entire truth about John Watson.

**_John_ **

I've taken up cooking breakfast for the both of us. If I didn't, he'd probably skip it entirely; food doesn't seem to register at all to him. He probably doesn't cook. He obviously doesn't clean. He will probably do laundry if I insist on it. That's fine. I'm hardly some domestic miracle myself and thank god we both like takeaway.

I snuck a look at his wardrobe yesterday when he was downstairs talking to Mrs Hudson. It's mostly bespoke stuff that makes James Bond look underdressed. Is he rich? He doesn't have a job, and the Metropolitan police doesn't pay him. Does he take private cases? Is there a trust fund?

This morning, he takes a seat and pushes away his microscope to make room for a plate without even being prompted. I put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and then take a seat in the second chair.

His fork hovers over the plump yolk. "Have you ever had cavities, John?" he asks and skewers the egg as though testing the consistency.

My brows hitch up as I swallow a piece of toast.

"If you're already infected with the _Mutans_ streptococcus, then it would be unproblematic to co-ordinate toothpaste purchases. Do you have any particular gum care needs?" he continues before I get a word in.

Do I look like someone who has specific gum care needs?

"Obviously--" Sherlock continues – there's his favourite word again, "you are willing to make do with generic haircare brands, so I was merely wondering if that applied to toothpaste as well."

I bet he uses that top-shelf stuff from the poshest barbershops in London. The stuff that costs as much a bottle as a new TV. His hair _does_ look good. Fuck if I know how much work his curls are on a daily basis. "What's this about?"

"We could coordinate purchases. It's economical."

"It's fine by me if we have separate toothpastes."

Sherlock clears his throat, glances at the newspaper that sits folded on the kitchen table between us but doesn't pick it up. "I could not help noticing your financial situation and I was merely trying to come up with fiscally responsible habits."

"I can get a job," I say, more sharply than I had intended. I'm not poor. The army pension is simply very, very small. I might _have_ to get a job. Why wouldn't I? I can hardly make a living out of following His Royal Poshness around.

Sherlock seems to have no reply to this. He stands up, goes to the kettle, peers into it. "Where have you put the tea?"

"PG tips pyramids in the rightmost cupboard."

"That's not the tea cupboard."

"I wasn't aware there was an official one." I open the newspaper and fold the first page over.

"Clearly the most ergonomic and convenient place to put the tea is the cupboard in the middle."

"If you say so."

I glance up at him. He's biting his lip, and there's a downright pained expression on his face as though he's utterly frustrated and unable to decide what to do.

"I prefer loose leaf," he says apologetically. "But I can make do with pyramid bags." He makes it sound like a child's Christmas gift that he'd be willing to compromise.

I've now told him where the tea is, he has told me the one I've selected is fine, so why is he still standing there motionless, practically quivering with nervous energy?

"Sherlock?" I like his name. It's odd, like he is, but in a good way, just like he is. I'm very much undecided on _Mycroft_. What sort of people give their children such names?

I suddenly realise he's already in a properly buttoned, crisp suit whereas I'd wandered into the kitchen in my bathrobe and pyjama bottoms. Am I making him uncomfortable? Why?

"We have not come to any sort of agreement on how to organise the things we both use," he says.

"Well, I don't mind, really," I offer. "You've put a lot of thought into where the tea goes so it's obvious you can be trusted to decide. Just put things where you think they should go."

His entire being seems to let out a sigh of relief.

The decision to give him free rein on where things are kept is one I find myself regretting mere hours later when his stuff is suddenly everywhere. The case-related clutter in particular is like a primordial ooze spreading all over the formerly empty surfaces of the flat. I make the mistake of moving some of his books while looking for the TV remote and he gets mildly upset but hides it well. He informs me that he can't finds things if I move them away from where they belong. I protest that his collection of forensic entomology books probably doesn't belong under sofa cushions and that potassium chloride probably shouldn't be in the sugar bowl, and he looks at me as though some aliens have just dropped me on the doorstep.

 

 

 ** _Sherlock_**  

I've barely gotten to the end of the first movement, when John storms down the stairs.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell---!"

I'm frozen in the dim light of the living room, suspended in alarm over his reaction. Reflexively, my left arm holding the violin descends and I put the bow on the window sill. I haven't played in his presence yet; him barging in like this feels as though he's caught me doing something much more intimate than practicing a bit of music.

He stops at the entrance to the sitting room, hair dishevelled, old pyjamas hanging from his hips and a ratty T-shirt covering his torso. I can never look even that sane that after just waking up – the curls ensure it. Why are his pyjamas such a ghastly sight? He must've weighed more before he enlisted in the army. He's gone a bit soft in the middle as compared to his army photos, but the pyjamas are still slightly too big. Or, perhaps they've belonged to someone else. Why would he have kept them? Sentiment?

"Any particular reason why you're making such a racket?" he asks, and I try to decide whether this is meant as a rhetorical insult, or if it's a genuine question. I try to read the answer on his features, but I've not spent enough time with him yet to be any good at it. Is there a right answer? Is there ever one? Human interaction never seems like a linear path; instead it's an infinite flowchart of endless possibilities creating more possibilities with no precise endpoint.

"That was Ligeti's---" I start explaining.

"I don't care what it was."

"I did ask you how you felt about the violin," I point out feebly. I should have been less vague.

John seems to agree: "You did, but I thought that was in general, not _how do you feel about the damned violin being screeched at three bloody a.m._ "

I put the instrument on the window sill next to the bow, hide my hands behind my back, clasp my left wrist with the fingers of my right hand. I feel exposed under his scrutiny, even if he doesn't look very angry anymore.

"The neighbours might complain, not just me."

The neighbours _have_ complained, but I don't volunteer this fact.

He's looking at me with a mixture of slight suspicion and resignation.

I'm sure others have pointed out some of my... _peculiarities_ to him, ones I hadn't explained about beforehand. A part of me wonders what he must think of me. Have I offended him, behaved so strangely that I will now be dismissed as a necessary evil, someone with whom to share the financial burden of living in downtown London? He did kill a man for me, but wouldn't such a decent man as John Watson do that for anyone?

Does he enjoy my company beyond a bit of fun at a crime scene?

"I couldn't think," I explain. "I play when that happens, when I get restless."

He looks sceptical. "Well, can't you just--- squeeze a tennis ball of something?"

His innocent remark – how could he have known? – cuts right through my defences, brings forth memories, echoes of days past. I swallow them down like bile. They did give me things they called 'stress toys' and 'stim toys' because I could not sit still in class. I hid them in the trash bin after being forced to take them with me to school. I won't tell John any of this. I want to delay him finding out certain things about me.

Then again, he is a physician. I can deduce his secrets. He might easily deduce some of mine.

_Act normal._

"Well," I said, "maybe I could try." I don't specify what, but that seems to be enough. That I'd try. Because he asked me to.

I sit in that chair that is already somehow designated as mine, opposite the one he has adopted.

John is hovering by the door. "Right," he says. "Well, goodnight." He disappears up the steps but slowly, as though he's not quite sure if he should leave me sitting here alone.

He shouldn't. I want him to stay, because the restlessness and the imaginary crawling sensation under my skin that had been kept barely in check by the music had stopped completely when he joined me downstairs.

It seems that John can distract me, calm the rolling waves of distress in the neural networks of my brain with his mere presence.

 _Curious_.

 

 

**_John_ **

So, we're at a crime scene. Again. I'm surprised at how easily the Metropolitan Police has accepted that some random doctor is now following Sherlock around to these things, especially since Sherlock is a civilian himself. There may be a grain of truth in Sherlock saying that the police must need him if they're willing to bend the rules.

Well, anyway. This crime scene is not a nice one. Not that any of them are, but some are worse than others. Compared to this, the pink lady was a downright pretty sight.

It is fascinating to watch Sherlock's transformation from the withdrawn, downright nervous creature he's been at home to A Consulting Detective. It's the coat, it has to be. He practically grows a few inches, his spine snaps straight, his voice drops a few notches and he wears a superior scowl that seems to be permanently etched onto his features until a moment comes when it's just the two of us in a room. Then, his expression softens, and he seems to relax a bit. When other people are around, he sticks to his role.

We're in the bedroom of a young man, the only inhabitant of the flat. He lies naked on the king-sized bed. His clothes are nowhere to be seen, which Sherlock points out doesn't seem to fit with the idea of the victim having brought someone home for sex. This idea comes up not just because of the nudity, but because it soon becomes apparent that our victim is both dead and has suffered a sexual assault. Even a very cursory review of his injuries makes it obvious that there is no way this could been consensual.

The flowers don't fit. They look gruesome, scattered around him on the bed. Roses. Pink ones. Sherlock picks one up, smells it, mentions three possibilities of a variety because of course he'd have all of them memorised. He doesn't bother with the gloves, which brings forth a frown from that forensic technician he seems to enjoy insulting. Anderson, I think.  

"Revenge?" I ask. "Seems personal, with the flowers."

The bedding is disheveled, bloodstained, tangled up underneath. It looks like there was a struggle. "The roses must've been added afterwards," I suggest, wanting to sound not entirely useless. To Sherlock it must be obvious.

He opens his mouth, looking slightly dismissive at first but then he frowns, something careful and hesitant shifting through his features like a shadow, and he turns his back to me. It's as though he'd been preparing for a scathing retort but opted out.

Sherlock does his thing with the body – this time, after being told off a few times by crime scene techs at previous crime scenes, he at least puts on a pair of gloves after making sure they're not a powdered variety. He meticulously inspects hair, fingernails, wrists and ankles – no ligature marks – corneas, mouth.

I hear half a joke from a nearby tech about sticking a finger somewhere. I try to silence them with a glare. If they need Sherlock, why be so vile to him? I don't know the history here, I have no idea how conflicted Sherlock's early days with the Met have been, but during our brief acquaintance I've seen and heard some pretty unprofessional behaviour from these officers. I hope they don't treat victims and victims' loved ones the way they treat their consultant.

Since this is the victim's home, his identity is already known. What we need to learn now is why him, and why here, and why he died in this precise manner. Staged. Brutally assaulted. It seems that he's mostly likely been choked to death. Bare hands, judging by the small, round bruises. Nothing indicating a ligature being used.

Lestrade is leaning on a wardrobe nearby. "Shooting and stabbing is quick and impersonal. Choking someone, personal."

"I'd say raping them is personal, too," Anderson points out, his voice muffled by the fact that he's on his hands and needs, rummaging around beneath the bed. Looking for what, I have no idea.

"Sexual assault can be personal _or_ impersonal. Lestrade's right, though, in terms of this victim being carefully selected," Sherlock says.

"If he was so carefully picked, then why didn't the perp finish, then?" a burly, middle-aged, uniformed officer asks while bagging things Anderson is handing him. It seems that the victim's clothes had been shoved under the bed instead of being stolen.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"No semen," a forensic technician holding a camera points out. "We did the UV already, and the body's been checked for that as well."

"He could have used a condom," Sherlock says, inspecting the window frame now that he seems to be done with the body.

"There's a very narrow time window here. He would have had to been party-ready to do all this in ten minutes _and_ finish."

"Maybe he couldn't get it up," Anderson says. "Could be the victim brought him home and he got frustrated and killed him."

There's something weasel-like about the crime scene technician which keeps me from taking him seriously. Sherlock clearly doesn't.

I'm treated to an eye roll from Sherlock. My lip quirks up.

Anderson makes some more remarks Sherlock has no use for, so he artfully ignores them. He continues dashing about the room, and after the Met team members get their parts finished they linger for a moment, then file out of the room. One uniformed officer I had seen Lestrade talking to earlier keeps watch by the door, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.

While Sherlock is inspecting the lock mechanism on the door, I see the man lean in and whisper something to him.

Sherlock doesn't look at him, doesn't reply. The man glances towards me with a nod that isn't polite at all, then adds something to what he'd said before. There is no reaction from Sherlock apart from a disdainful glare. The officer retreats a bit, not because he's suddenly intimidated but because, judging by his triumphant expression, he has delivered his message.

I've stepped closer before even realising. Why? Sherlock's tongue is sharper than a razor blade, so he is very capable of fighting his own verbal battles. It's just that I don't like to watch him having to constantly do so. This time, he had opted out of even replying.

I hate bullies. Who wouldn't? I doubt this is the first time Sherlock has met some. Why doesn't Lestrade keep his staff in check? I have wanted to ask him about it ever since that first night when he and Donovan were exchanging barbs, but I don't want him to have to relive what are probably some pretty shitty memories.

He doesn't want consoling, does he? I bet he's sensitive to pity so wouldn't like that. So, what can I do but stand here like an idiot and glower at these other idiots? At least Sherlock knows how to project a sense of being above it all. His expression looks steely. Strained. Carefully built.

The officer cranes his neck towards the hallway. Then, his earpiece rattles, and he replies something to his handheld radio before disappearing from the room.

It seems that I've been spending enough time with Sherlock already to pick up on the more subtle stuff: his shoulders drop just a little, and a tiny twitch of a cheek muscle betrays that he's let his guard down momentarily. I'm only seeing the right half of his face, but the brief spell of emotion had looked like he was upset. It came and went quickly, but it was there.

I clear my throat, and the focus of his gaze sharpens. He stretches up to his full height from leaning forward to have a look at some glass items on the oak dresser. Now, he looks unbreakable again. Distant. Formidable. Intimidating. He looks like someone who cannot be hurt by words.

But, I cannot be fooled by this anymore. It's a mask. If this is how they treat him, why work with the police at all? I bet he could find enough private cases to keep him in bread and butter.

"The victim brought his killer into the house, let him in willingly. No sign of forced entry, keys had been dropped on the floor instead of the bowl in the foyer, just as someone would if they'd been kissing someone right after entering. Missed the bowl narrowly. Unless distracted by something, most people would have picked them up to put them where they belong."

"Date gone wrong?" I ask Sherlock. "That would explain the flowers."

He ignores me promptly when Lestrade walks into the bedroom to join us.

"Is Glasser working on this?" Sherlock asks Lestrade.

The DI nods. "He's got the files for the first victim and we're delivering him the crime scene photos as soon as we can."

"Daniel Glasser's the Met's resident criminal psychiatrist," Sally Donovan, who has crept in to stand close to me, points out in a low voice. "The only one even the Freak bows down to in expertise. Wonder why. Human nature isn't his strong suit," Donovan chuckles ominously, and I refuse to acknowledge her, keeping my line of sight fixed on Sherlock.

"We should focus on this second victim and looking at the pool of unsolved sexual assault cases with a similar MO. The first victim may have been the perpetrator's first homicide. Opportunity and playing it safe often have bigger roles in the first one than is often appreciated; statistically, serial killers begin exhibiting their signatures more fully in their second or third homicides," Sherlock fires off effortlessly, running his finger along the back of the books in the bedroom's bookcase.

Another serial killer. _Fantastic_. I'm only half-serious with the sarcasm.

Sherlock isn't even trying to pretend he isn't giddy. He's practically skipping down the lane as we head towards the main road to hail a taxi back to Baker Street.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sherlock_ **

Underneath his chosen – and failing – disguise of a gruff cynic, John is so kind that it makes a part of me ache in a manner I am not willing to examine at this time. It clearly bothers him greatly that many people don't _like_ me. Maybe this is so because he has chosen to like me, and he fears the opinions of others are a reflecting on his taste in acquaintances. Or flatmates. He is unaccustomed to the routine ire I inspire when working with the Met, so he tries to address the incident with the uniformed officer once we get home.

He wants to know what had been said, which I don't care to repeat. The words themselves are insignificant, and he should be able to guess that it had been nothing but an unoriginal taunt produced by the idle workings of a lesser mind. It's certainly nothing I haven't faced before. I know I'm an intruder – an exotic bird among pigeons in the club of classic British machismo that are London's police forces. John need not concern himself with what has always been my lot in life, but I do not know how to discourage him from caring. I don't know how to steer his motivations, probably because he _sees_ me in a way that is both frightening and seductive. I don't want to discourage him from caring, though I do agree with Mycroft – how disgusting – that doing so is no advantage. If he cares, he'll be more inclined to put up with me when I keep failing at behaving like everyone else.

The words of the officer are too fresh, too acute in my memory to be deleted just yet. "So that's how you like 'em, blond and dumb?" he whispered to me, leaning so close I could feel his stale breath shifting the hairs in front of my left ear. "If he can't see that you're as queer as they come, then I'm pretty sure you've got no hope with that one, _mate_. I'm sure that blog of his is gonna bring all the weirdos to your door, though. There's someone out there for _everyone_." Sarcasm. Easily decipherable. With John I cannot always tell, but the sneer on the officer's face painted a very illustrative picture of whether he wished me good or not.

It doesn't matter. At one point in the distant past, I had to decide that it doesn't matter, what people say about me.

"Look," John says, pinching the bridge of his nose with a deep, pained frown. I like his expressiveness, even if some of it is connected to the sort of subtle irony or sarcasm I cannot pick up on unless someone else is reacting to it. It irks me less not to be able to decipher him than it does when it comes to other people, because I cannot find malice in John's attitude towards me. Even his amusement when social things elude me is more endearing than pitiful. Endearing is... tolerable. I find myself wanting to coax forth even those reactions, because when he focuses on me, reacts to me, looks at me, it's---

 _Distracting._ Just like this conversation. Distracting _from the case_ , _John,_ which is what I tell him before he finishes his sentence.

"Sherlock---" this is a synonym to another one of his favourite sentence openers, which is 'look', and that one he has already used. Such things are attempts at stalling, while formulating the best possible way to say something he finds difficult to address. Or uncomfortable. I don't do that; I simply remain silent while trying to construct and deconstruct sentences in my head. People find it more unsettling than John's placeholder words.

"Yes?" I ask when he doesn't continue. He seems to get easily annoyed when I ignore him completely. I have been trying to make an effort not to, but my focus can get rather narrow.

"Do you---" he starts, shifting his weight. Parade rest. Army posture. _Prepare for battle_. Against me or _for_ me, John? He doesn't look angry. _Are you my great defender?_

Do I?

"--- want me to have a word with Lestrade?"

"A word about what?"

"They should at least stay civil even if they hate that you're solving their cases for them."

I drop into my usual armchair, push myself up with my arms to perch on the backrest. Steeple my fingers in preparation for the thinking I will need to do shortly. Whether it'll be about the case or an indulgent little meditation on John, remains to be seen. "Irrelevant."

"That's your go-to phrase when you don't want to discuss something, isn't it?"

I hum something non-committal. Pick lint off my trousers, drop it on the floor.

John frowns. "If there's anything you want me to do about it, just tell me."

He sounds like a parent who wants to phone a teacher about a bully. I conceal a smile behind my hands. "Perhaps you might refrain from personal details on the blog. My personal details," I suggest sunnily since I'm not sure he'll abandon the subject until I offer him something; "in your replies to comments. That's what this was about. But, as I said, irrelevant," I dismiss with a swat of my palm to enforce my point.

His face betrays confusion. This _I_ find endearing. Maybe he is my type, after all – blond and somewhat intelligent. More so than me, in fact, when it comes to interpreting other people's emotional responses.

"What details?" John asks.

I leap down from the chair, grab my phone from the table and find the relevant entry. His blog may have been already open on a tab of the web browser. He shouldn't read too much into it. He knows I read what he published. Why wouldn't I? He writes about me. A lot.

Wordlessly, forehead scrunched up in a way that reminds me of a bulldog, he reads through the comments and realisation dawns.

_'I'm not gay. He might be. I don't know. It doesn't matter.'_

"I suggest you heed that last phrase and drop the subject," I tell him, and head for the bedroom. I don't want to hear his usual spluttering declarations of heterosexuality. That's a conversation he needs to have with his libido, not me. He's not gay, but he lets his gaze linger. The first time he walked into the bathroom when I was drying off, he let his eyes linger from top to toe before emitting a slow drawl of a 'sorry' before retreating. He had a good game face, but I found the intense attention to details and the slowness of his retreat intriguing.

He texts me an hour later. Judging by the shift in the light pattern underneath the door, he's standing right behind it as he does so, probably having decided knocking and entering would be too awkward.

The message reads: ' _sorry didnt mean to give them ammunition_ '. As usual, he doesn't gift me with the courtesy of decent punctuation, which is more insulting than anything he had written in his amateurish blog.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Andrew Glasser is the least incompetent person associated with the Metropolitan Police. He does not particularly like me, but his abilities to focus on the task at hand instead of getting mixed up in interpersonal politics are much better developed than those of some other members of the force.

I am immensely well-educated in forensic science, including medicine, criminal psychopathology and crime scene containment procedures. It's the practical application of psychology to human behaviour that I have had to concede is not my forte. That is why I do not protest his involvement in cases I consult in.

That doesn't mean I enjoy encounters with the man. The only occasion on which Glasser's considerable skills in interpreting human behavioural clues have utterly failed him was when he tried to make a pass at me. After that I have limited our one-on-one interactions to phone conversations. I am procrastinating calling him this time. I don't know why. I am not uncomfortable discussing details of sexually motivated homicide with other professionals, yet I find myself reluctant to discuss them with him in particular.

_Sentiment. Stupidity. Pettiness._

Even if I was interested, dating someone who is practically a co-worker is never a good idea. This is something Donovan and Anderson ought to realise.

Is John a co-worker? Is he a colleague? What is he to me? 'Flatmate' doesn't explain why he accompanies me when I consult. I cannot be certain he wouldn't have shot Jeff Hope for anyone, that it wasn't about me. After all, John did point out that he was not a very nice man. Wouldn't John have chosen a better person over Hope regardless of who that person was?

I am not interested in romance, I remind myself. I have taught myself not to be and pride myself in the results. Human interaction should be limited to utilitarian purposes.

While I pace the length of the sitting room, procrastinating about a phone call, John has left for a job interview. I don't like the idea of him spending more time away from the flat and being unavailable for cases.

I don't understand myself when it comes to him.

 

 

**_John_ **

The first time I see the first victim in what Sherlock is certain is a serial offender case is when we visit the morgue at Barts two days after the crime scene visit. Mark Hale been dead for three weeks, the autopsy's already done, but no one has claimed the corpse and some of the forensic chemistry is still being processed. It's a stroke of luck, then, that he's still here even though it has taken some time to connect him to the second victim.

I linger in the background as Molly Hooper discusses her findings with Sherlock and Lestrade. It's odd hearing Sherlock talk about sex. He's completely professional, utterly detached and thus shamelessly blunt, but there's a strange undercurrent of innocence there that's similar to hearing him talk about other things he doesn't realise bothers or amuses others.

I don't believe that sociopath malarkey he tells people about himself. Not at all. The last nail in the coffin was the look on his face when he asked me to imagine what I'd say if I was about to die. When he realised what he'd done, that I was not speaking in hypotheticals, he looked so shocked, so pained, so embarrassed and probably afraid that he'd messed up and insulted me, that I was half convinced I'd hear him apologise, which I suspect he never really does. That incident seemed to really throw him for a loop, judging by the constant glances of me he kept stealing that evening and the awkward attempts at being particularly nice to me. I tried to smile, tried to reassure him wordlessly that it was fine, that he couldn't have known, but it did not seem to help. He made tea. Took him quite a long time. For all his insistence on ergonomic placement of tea supplies, I doubt he ever really bothers or remembers to prepare it for himself.

I wish I could alleviate his nervousness around me; he behaves as though I've put him on probation. What is he so afraid of? It's obvious he's not that good with people. It's fine. Should I tell him it's fine? He tries so damned hard, that's obvious. Sometimes he tries too hard it all backfires because it all comes out so forced and fake.

His bad mood of this morning took some time to abate. It was caused by Lestrade calling him to say that he wasn't allowed to join in the interviews of the second victims' family members. The reason is the delicacy of the victim's injuries. Lestrade won't trust him to be able to be tactful enough. I heard the conversation due to Sherlock using the speakerphone since he was doing something with his microscope. Lestrade had been apologetic enough that it's clear he doesn't think Sherlock insults or distresses people deliberately; he simply cannot read the needed social cues, nor does he put much special significance to certain more intimate or gruesome aspects of cases. This allows him not to be distracted by emotion, but it does limit the extent to which he's allowed to be involved.

Nobody wants to be told they're not good at something. That they're not welcome. I would have expected him to be angrier about it, but his annoyance had soon turned to resignation. He didn't seem surprised at Lestrade's decision.

This brings back memories, being inside the Barts pathology unit. It wasn't the training hospital for the university I went to and we had our anatomy classes in the anatomy department instead of pathology, but the smell of death, the tables and the general air of decay are universal to such spaces.

As we were heading for the meeting with Molly, I tried to suggest breakfast on the go and Sherlock refused. I don't think he slept last night. I still hope it's a joke, what he says about not eating or sleeping on cases. No wonder he's so skinny.

Mrs Hudson popped by last night, shared a bit about how she met Sherlock. It's still unclear how he ended up in Florida, but, apparently, he was getting his coke from one of the dealers belonging to the network run by Mrs Hudson's frankly godawful-sounding husband. After some hair-raising turns of events, Sherlock ended up helping her make sure her husband went away for good and that she got to expatriate herself back to her native London _and_ keep a good chunk of her husband's fortune. I suspect the dear old lady changed some details which could have painted Sherlock in quite a questionable light.

"It's good he has a doctor, now," Mrs Hudson told me, and I had a hard time interpreting what this _having_ entailed exactly. Surely, she wasn't talking about medical services. Why is everyone assuming we are involved on a level beyond just flatmates? Do they know something about Sherlock that I don't? Maybe I'm reading too much into her choice of words. Sherlock's attention to detail must be rubbing off on me.

Well, anyway, Mrs Hudson – or, _Hudders_ , as Sherlock sometimes calls her when he's in a good mood – said that he's been clean ever since he started working for the Met. I think I need to ask Lestrade if I want to hear the story of how that started. Sherlock doesn't talk about the past, nor does he discuss his family. Not that I've pried. It's just that I can sense it, him getting a bit suspicious and dismissive when I ask personal questions. Some of them he does answer without even thinking, practically offers some bits of information that are favourable towards him, but the rest.... no. I'm not one to open up much, either, so that's quite alright, then. It's fine as is. He's a mystery. Maybe he'll always be one.

Right now, he's sticking his finger into the very deceased armpit of Mark Hale. Next, he smells his finger as though he could possibly make out something important after so many weeks of the young man decomposing in a mortuary cabinet. I half hope no one notices but at least Donovan has, and she's crossing her arms and shaking her head.

Sherlock looks distracted, as though he's thinking hard and not exactly concentrating on what he's doing. He's very fidgety, especially during cases. He paces, cards his fingers through his hair, drums his thigh with his fingers, can't sit still, tortures the violin, picks things up and puts them down. He also has extensive conversations with himself – and me, regardless of whether I even participate. He told me he sometimes won't talk for days on end – Mrs Hudson says this is when he's on a bad mood – but nobody told me anything about the man _never shutting the hell up_ when he's thinking hard and fast and there's a case on.

He doesn't like calling people, but he did phone the Met profiler. According to this guy, who has now reviewed most of the findings from both crime scenes, they're looking for a white male, probably in his forties or fifties, with a history of voyeurism and non-homicidal sexual assault. Single, educated but not very highly, loner, gay though probably not openly. Sherlock seemed disappointed at this analysis. He said that it hardly narrows down the male populace of London much.

Sherlock and Andrew Glasser did agree on one thing, though – the culprit probably didn't know his victims before picking them. There's nothing to connect the two of them insofar as Sherlock has been able to find by looking at their flats, their corpses or by talking to their neighbours.

Donovan expresses satisfaction at him not being present for the family interviews; "The Freak always makes them cry."

"Why do you have to call him that?" I asked, irritated.

Donovan raised her hands in resignation. "Wasn't me who coined that name."

The only family member he has met was Jeanne, the sister of the second victim, Joe Callesen. At least I kept him from accidentally outing the man. Apparently, our killer wasn't the only closeted gay man in this terrible business.

Sherlock seemed a bit rattled afterwards. Sociopath my arse.

   


**_Sherlock_ **

Hale consensual, can't tell if condom used or not Callesen very much assaulted did they scrape under the nails or not must call Molly again did John move my rosin box mustn't ask although he said I could decide where things go things things THINGS something about the potted plant think you idiot John called you that but with affection WHY potted plant _moved_ part of the tableau something about the window I need the photos I need to text Lestrade is it about the light ----- can't have tea now, tell John "not hungry" why is he still hovering should I should eat the biscuit to get him off my back Lestrade said hookup how does one do that nowadays should we be looking at phone booths how do I narrow that down do they keep maps of where they are or are most just left in place for ambience why does John look so happy that I ate something where was I potted plant text Lestrade was the humidity high for that week, how fast would he have decomposed why was the body not found sooner did the killer know very few people keep in touch with Hale why is John in my chair does he want to change his chair preference why would he pose them why flowers -----

Bump into John in the kitchen. Wasn't looking where I was going.

"Slow down, genius," he says, amused as he scarfs down half a piece of toast in one bite.

I don't know how one slows down.

"War film on in ten, want to join me?" he asks.

Why would I want to watch a movie when there is actual human intrigue going on out there, right now? There is an unidentified man out there, planning his next murder and I get to try to stop him? A _movie_ , John?

He sits on the sofa, pats the cushion next to me, looking carefully expectant. I can't deny the man what he wants.

We watch the movie, though my thoughts are elsewhere. Mostly spinning the plates of the case, or so I like to think. The rest of my awareness is centred about John. He wants me to join him for this sort of thing. Is he being polite? Does he enjoy my company?

I let him watch in silence for a full hour, after which I can no longer resist pointing out the flaws in the film's explosion physics. Within a few minutes, I have him in stitches. I am being _serious_ , yet he's laughing but at least this is not similar to the malignant amusement of my peers at Cambridge or the schoolmates of earlier years. This is something else: a strange mixture of delight, surprise and gentle teasing that does not make me feel unwanted or unliked.

I try to scold myself that somewhere out there, a killer is planning their next move, and I'm wasting my time with televised drivel.

I watch John watching the film. It's much more interesting than the plot.

 

 

**_John_ **

Sherlock keeps trying to educate me. He shoves articles and books into my lap. It seems to be something more than just trying to introduce me to his interests – it's as though he's preparing me for something. This is the third case I have joined him for; there will probably be more. We never made a formal agreement about me assisting him, he seems to assume I will. He asked my help originally because of my medical background, but now I think he's trying to extend my expertise into other fields. Isn't it enough that he knows all this stuff?

"Are you familiar with the concept of victimology?" he asks over tea.

I hum, half-heartedly leafing through at yet another book he has dropped on my lap and made me nearly knock over a mug of darjeeling. He's ignoring his own, even though he insisted on having some.

He's sitting on the floor, organising the crime scene photos into some sort of a sequence the meaning of which eludes me and probably everyone else on Earth. "It means analysing why a particular victim was selected and subjected to the treatment they were. Linkage analysis is part of it – what connects these victims?"

"You mean trying to work out what the guy's type is?"

"If you insist on such imprecise colloquialisms, yes. _Type_ mostly refers to preferences in romantic partners, but the motive for selecting a victim may have to do with other factors than just attraction. It is pertinent to pick a victim physically weaker than oneself, unless planning to threaten them with a weapon. Those living on the fringes of society, unemployed and alienated from friends and family members are lower risk victims than, say, a married female suburban socialite. Gang shootings have a much lower solve rate as homicides than the killings of white women or children. This isn't because they're harder to solve, but because there's less public pressure and outrage."

This is actually quite interesting. Contrary to what Donovan insinuated, Sherlock isn't just interested in gruesome crime scene details. No, this is a puzzle he's solving. _The game is on_.

"So, why Callesen and Hale, then?"

Sherlock leans his head back, fingers steepled together and the tips of the middle ones resting on his lips. "Both victims are young, unattached males. There are signs in both cases that the victim let the killer enter their homes willingly. In the first case there were no obvious defensive injuries, which means that the sex was consensual at least pre-mortem, though the legal definition of consent as pertaining to dead individuals is---"

I raise a hand. "Eugh. Get back on track, please."

Sherlock drops his hands, shifts so that his bottom hits the floor instead of sitting on his folded legs. "There's an element of sentimentality, or romance in the way in which he posed the victims, but the graphic manner in which the first victim's throat was cut is in stark contrast to the strangulation of the second one. What if choking was his selected MO, but he had to improvise? There was a nick next to the fingerprint bruising, both victims are muscular males who would have been hard to subdue without threatening them with a weapon. Perhaps he used a knife as a threat, then the other victim struggled, and he had to improvise. Fascinating contrast between the flowers and the violence. An anger-retaliatory type would not have bothered with the romance bit. He wanted a personal connection with these victims. Why? Choking is personal. Consensual sex is personal."

"One-night stand?" I suggest.

"Risky. Someone could have seen him at a bar or a club with the victim. But, you _could_ be on to something."

I feel like I've just gotten a gold star.

"The family members could probably have named a regular partner, except that Callesen was not out to his family. I don't like assumptions, be we could base some speculation on both victims having been brief hookups."

Neither victim seemed to be the club-going type, so it doesn't surprise me when Sherlock grabs his laptop and starts abusing the keyboard with frantic, excited strokes. "Online dating," he announces.

   


**_Sherlock_ **

I hate certain kinds of cases, cases which other deem to be of sensitive nature. It's not that they don't offer any intellectual challenge or because I find them unworthy of my time – quite the contrary. I hate them because of the unspoken demands and accusations of the faces of others trying to solve them when I'm present. They demand professionalism and good behaviour, yet secretly condone roughing up child molesters and police killers when surveillance cameras are not looking. They demand objectivity yet revere emotional engagement ways deemed socially acceptable.

They think I can't relate to the pain these victims have had to endure, that I can't read it in the evidence, that it doesn't scream out to me from the recesses of my own brain at night when I'm alone and allowing myself to try to sleep.

I don't sleep during cases if I can avoid it. Nightmares. Vivid ones. They are created by my ability to accurately recreate what happened to these people. Does me taking their pain on as my own make me more objective, faster, more intelligent? I think not. I will play the role of the sociopath if that gives me peace and quiet to do my job. They can laugh, they can point their fingers, they can reap the benefits when I do their work for them. Mostly, it doesn't sting. Mostly, I float above it all.

John is a complication in this convenient arrangement. He sees past it. I think he wants me to be who I am, even though it hurts when people react to it. He would protect me from them, and he expects more from me than I am allowing others to see.

This killer preys on the lonely and the inexperienced. That's immensely cruel. Mark Hale and Joe Callesen – yes, I do remember the names of the victims, despite what Donovan once claimed – reached out from their lonely lives to someone. They wanted a hand to hold, someone to kiss, perhaps more; the sought companionship, love, affection, the reassuring presence of someone in their lives. Yet, what reached out to them was death – someone thinking they had the right to choose for them what they needed, someone who saw his own needs as greater than theirs.

These kinds of cases are not a game, and that is why I cannot, _will_ not let it replay in my head tonight. There is cocaine in the flat; those Met idiots haven't found any of my three stashes. I won't take it. I'm almost sure I won't.

I claw off old nicotine patches, slap on two new ones. I feel like I'm floating, so tired I probably could not sleep even if I tried.

I have felt the loneliness these men sought to end, and in the past it often enveloped me when I allowed myself to slow down when working.

That loneliness is not here tonight. Instead of a stale emptiness, I imagine being surrounded by a faint hum of humanity, an invisible presence emanating from the bedroom upstairs. It should feel oppressive and distracting but instead it feels like a secure lock on the door, the warmth from a fireplace, a sensory snowfall that softens the sounds and lights that would otherwise feel too sharp.

 _John_.

Where did he come from? He could have had an easier life than signing up for Afghanistan. Was he seeking new things for his life, or escaping something? He doesn't talk about his past and I want to avoid prying. It's clearly important to him to control how people see him. Perhaps we both try very hard on the stage that consists of the expectations and assumptions of other people. Does he accept me because he wants to be accepted himself?

Who is John Watson?

His profession gives him an easy role at crime scenes, a context, a clearly defined area of expertise. When it comes to other tasks related to cases, he very much sticks to the periphery and defers to me. What are the parameters of our acquaintance? Can I expect him to accompany me on cases on a regular basis? Will he see a role for himself? He has already proven to be... useful. It's ridiculous, really, but it feels as though he creates a safe zone for me in the presence of others, drawing some of the attention as he stands ready to step in if someone tries to interfere with my work. He looks ready to pounce when Anderson and Donovan in particular are around.

Protectiveness often equals pity, and a scepticism that the object of it is incapable of looking after themselves. This doesn't seem to be the case with John, at least not entirely.

He told off my brother. He told off  _Mycroft Holmes_.

Who the _hell_ is John Watson?

   


**_John_ **

It takes Sherlock an hour to do what took the Met's fibre lab nine days: to identify the microscopic strings of rope remaining on the bodies of Hale and Callesen. It wasn't used to kill them but to bind the bodies after death so that they would stiffen into a certain position. It seems that the killer assumed they would be found within the window of rigor mortis still being present. It's a hemp rope sold only in three nautical shops around London. We naturally visit each of them and convince Lestrade to arrange surveillance. The owners can't think of any customers fitting the bill or having raised the hairs on the backs of their necks which isn't surprising – psychopaths don't walk around carrying signs around the necks.

Around one p.m. I'm starving and somehow Sherlock deduces that, because he leads us to the nearby Borough Market for lunch. He doesn't eat, of course, apart from stealing a bit of cheese from my plate.

When we're making our way to the Tube station close by, his steps halt near a charcuterie stall in the middle of a lengthy lecture on the differences of visionary and power-control -type sexual homicides. It takes me a moment to realise why he has stopped, because it's a bit absurd: he leans down on his haunches to reach his fingers out to a puppy – a golden retriever as far as I can tell.

"May I?" he asks the owner – a twentysomething women clad in what looks like very expensive boots and a form-fitting down jacket – and she nods eagerly with a smile.

Sherlock curls his finger under the tiny dog and gently picks it up, holding it against his chest. He starts spouting something about a recent article in Penology Review but I'm more interested in watching him as the puppy licks his nose wet. The unrestrained joy in him is startling, especially in contrast to his work persona and the grim monologue he's just been spouting.

I feel downright privileged to see this. What has happened to him to make him so defensive, so heavily armoured, so pre-emptively prickly when in the presence of others, and why would he allow these glimpses of his true self to me of all people, especially after such a short acquaintance?

After we reluctantly let the dog owner continue her shopping and hop on the Tube, Sherlock tells me that Glasser thinks our unsub is bound to strike again. Thanks to having now found both Hale's and Callesen's profiles  on the same dating website, we know enough about our killer's tastes to attempt to bait him.

I just hope Sherlock won't volunteer to put himself on the line. He's fallen silent, wearing that one expression that spells danger, and I can't look away.

   
  


**_Sherlock_ **

I may have made a slight miscalculation in the intelligence of our perpetrator. Just a very slight underestimation, perhaps. Even that's an exaggeration.

I'm being followed home instead of him meeting at the bar we'd agreed to. He took the bait and it took less than three days for him to get in touch after I posted a very specifically tailored profile of my own on the website.

Glasser was useful in formulating it. If only the rest of the Met could follow suit. I didn't tell John what I was doing. He would have put his foot down.

"You thought I couldn't work it out," a surprisingly high-pitched male voice says behind me when I round a corner.

There's a sting in my neck before I've even managed to pivot around and prepare for a fight.

   


**_John_ **

I knew this would backfire. I knew this was going to be like the cabbie. I fucking knew he'd do something like this because he's an idiot and now he's probably been kidnapped.

I know it does nothing to fix this, but I yell at Lestrade some more anyway. Sherlock will get his due in yelling later once we find him. Alive.

 

 

**_Sherlock_ **

It hurt less than I would have thought, having one's throat almost cut. _File for future reference._ Well, I say _almost_ , because the sloppy execution – pardon the expression – has not achieved its goal. At least I managed to turn his tricks on himself. I kick his foot to make sure he isn't moving. Can't quite get up; even sitting up makes me dizzy.

What happens next? How long do I have, until the gush of blood I have managed to turn into a trickle by pressing on my carotid weakens me enough that my hand slips?

I wish I'd waited for John. It's just that I'm not used to having backup. I'm not used to having a _person_.

I can taste his name in the dark, whisper it out loud. _John._ My great defender.

I hear voices at the end of the hallway. Soon, there's a hand in my hair, which should be alarming, but there's something reassuring about it.

Where did ---- what is ---- I was supposed to ------

Mostly, though, I'm very, very cold.

**_John_ **

Finally, Sherlock seems to blink himself back into existence, and I can breathe again.

"Idiot," I exhale, lightheaded when relief floods my veins and rattles my bones.

He called out for me when we found him, sounding lost and confused, like the antithesis of his credo of being the loner genius.

"You bloody idiot," I repeat, and that's quite literal since he's bled quite profusely from the cut in his neck. The killer had bled more, however, from the bullet hole Donovan hat put squarely between his shoulder blades when he tried to get up. He was down when we arrived, with a knife sticking up from his thigh.

My heart had nearly stopped when I saw Sherlock on the ground, the grip of his hand loosening around his neck. _Jesus._ I bet I lost a few years of my life through shock in those seconds. The first thing I pressed to his bleeding neck was his own scarf.

His eyes are closed, and he mutters something with the letters J and N in it while we wait for the EMTs. Probably no lasting brain damage, then, if he can recognise me.

"Jesus", I pant, having to turn away momentarily because the adrenaline is losing its grip and I'm finally realising what had nearly happened. "You can't pull this shit, Sherlock, you'll give me a heart attack," I tell him, still cradling his head on my lap, pressing the tissues Lestrade had given me against the wound. No arteries have been severed, but there's probably a nick on his jugular vein. He'll live.

I realise I'm denying him the right for further self-endangerment not just because it's not good for his health but because I'm pleading for me, too. Because I like being around him, and I hate that I have to justify it to others. It's as though I see a different thing when I look at him than others do. Possibly that brother of his sees something similar, but only through snooty, superiorly snide big brother lenses.

"Did we catch him?" Sherlock asks, and now his eyes are open, but his pupils are pinprick-sized, and instead of being homed in on me like the eyes of a bird of prey, they look almost clouded. Hazy. Loopy. A sherlockian version of hypovolemic shock?

I cock my head to the left, towards the killer lying there. "Yeah, but there might not be a trial."

Donovan has knelt beside the fallen man, fingers on his neck looking for a pulse, shaking her head when she finds none. I tell her to start CPR anyway and she complies with the help of another officer. They seem slightly reluctant which I find understandable. I wouldn't fancy giving mouth-to-mouth to a serial killer, either.

Sherlock huffs disapprovingly and then finally seems to realise the position he's in. He lifts his head slightly, but I clamp it back down by placing my palm on his forehead – he has already bled on my trousers so there's nothing that can be done about that, but I'd prefer he stayed still until we get more help. "No fidgeting."

Sherlock hums something, then seems to drifts off. I make sure the gauze I'm pressing against his neck is exactly where it needs to be. This is a duty I wouldn't trust to anyone else.

 

 __  
  
**Sherlock**

"We talked about this. Risking your life to prove you're clever." John's hands are on his hips. Surely, it's bad bedside manner to reprimand one's patients. Not that I'm officially that, now, having been delivered into the care of a major London hospital, but John seems to find it hard to relinquish his role.

"That was a very short and very one-sided conversation," I remind him.

"It's not your job to put yourself on the line like that. There are trained officers who can do all the undercover stuff."

I nearly got killed because a murderer didn't underestimate me. They prepared well for taking me down. _I've_ made the game more dangerous, and John obviously doesn't like it. Well, he's a doctor. He likes it when people stay alive. "There's an inherent risk to chasing serial killers, John. It's the burden we bear."

"No," he says sternly. "You're reckless and I don't think you care much about what happens to you. It's not just about being clever. You don't think it matters, what happens to you? Well, I care, and you need to deal with that."

I raise the head of the bed so that he's not staring down at me. "What's it to you? You're likeable, you'll find a new flatshare. Mycroft can make do just fine without me. I should be the one to take the risks, not someone who has---"

"Who has what?"

" _People_ ," I snarl. Why shouldn't it be me who risks their life? Others have all the chances in the world to construct a meaningful life for themselves, to form ties with others that would be devastating if cut through tragedy. _Alone protects me._

Yet, when I look at this flatmate slash colleague slash _what exactly is he_ looking at me like he's had quite the shock just because I bled on him, those beliefs I have held onto for a long time no longer seem as written in stone.

"Yeah, well, bummer for you, then, that I care what happens to you," John says, "because yeah, I'm quite liking this arrangement of ours, but also because, well, why wouldn't I?"

Why _would_ he? I could think of plenty of reasons why caring about my fate is a bad idea. I don't have friends. I have people who want to benefit from my looks, my brains, my skills, or because hanging around me makes them look like saints. Mycroft says I have an _obvious death wish combined with reckless arrogance and few skills of self-preservation_. He doesn't realise I just mostly lack the motivation to think very far regarding my own role in interesting events. I react. I don't go around avoiding things to ensure my continued existence. I focus on the game, not myself.

I would care, however, if John was in danger. Very much so. I'm only realising this now, and the thought is both frightening and intriguing. What have I gone and done, asking him to join me for The Work?

I realise this may be how he feels right now, frightened for someone else. I like having him around. It's obvious he was not in a good state when we met. Now, he's cheery, cracking jokes at crime scenes, saying he cares about what happens to me. Ridiculous. Maybe he's hooked on danger like Mycroft insists, and I'm his fix. Perhaps, in our addictions, we are almost evenly matched.

What a strange pair we make.

It's uncanny: I like myself when he's around. He makes me feel truly clever, not the clever I manage to believe in on a good day. Clever, in a way that isn't diluted or nullified by my faults. He makes me feel like someone might actually want to be around me.

Where the hell did John Watson come from?

He's looking at me like he's expecting something. One of these social interaction things again. Should I verbalise what I have just thought? It's so hard to tell when that is or isn't a good idea.

"Maybe I could reconsider using myself as bait?" I offer. It's not as though we'll get a serial killer every week.

"And no more using my phone to text murderers."

"Fair enough." He doesn't specify whether he wants this to apply to other types of criminals as well. His tone signals that I probably shouldn't push my luck.

"They'll let you go home tomorrow if you behave," John says with a smirk.

"Tonight," I insist. I'm _not_ sitting in this bed in this boring room watching mind-numbing television when I could just as well be at home monitored by a resident doctor. My live-in doctor.

 _My..._ friend? Better yet, my _partner?_ Would he object to that description, think it suspect?

John sits down in a plastic chair, places his palms on his knees, glances out the window, prepares to bounce back to his feet. He owes me no favours, but it seems that it doesn't matter, because he says: "I'll go see if I can find the consultant. Maybe we could get you home tonight." He stands up, gives me a smile that makes me want to match it with my own, then disappears out the door to return about half an hour later with a newspaper in hand. "Discharge tomorrow," he tells me. That's good enough.

Somehow, I have invited him into my life in a way that gives me responsibility over him. Responsibility over being alive, for looking after myself not just for me but for him, because it would hurt him to lose it. I should be running for the hills – this is everything Mycroft likes warning me about. Yet, I find myself wanting this. Wanting the humming of his presence in the flat, like static electricity tuned to the currents of my own cells, longing for his silhouette to walk beside me as I wander the streets of London, wanting his voice to be the first thing that greets me in the morning. I want him to be what keeps the dark at bay instead of a seven percent solution burning my lifeline shorter.

I want the sober unknown, with him.

_I said danger, and here we are._

As though he'd read my mind, John smiles.

 

**– The End –**


End file.
